Page 93 of A November to Remember

The truth was that his mind was not on his feet at all. It was on the door.

Dawson had left Netherfield on horseback at first light that morning with a purse, a letter in Darcy’s hand, and orders that did not permit failure. Twenty-four miles to London, one hour at Darcy House, twenty-four miles back, and a ball to reach before the second set. It was a hard ride for a young man, and Dawson was not a young man. He was a man of settled habits who considered a brisk walk to the stables an adventure. Darcy had spent the day picturing him in a ditch outside Chipping Barnet with a broken neck and the most important thing in England still in his pocket.

He glanced at the door. No Dawson. He looked back at Elizabeth, who had raised one eyebrow to a height he had come to think of as the Bennet altitude.

“You keep staring at the door, sir. Are you expecting a more agreeable partner?”

“There is no more agreeable partner in the kingdom.”

“You are evading, Mr Darcy.”

“Not at all.” He turned her again. “Ask me after the set.”

“You are being mysterious, and it does not suit you. Well, it does, but I do not like it.”

“I thank you for the compliment. I shall endeavour to be more communicative. After the dance,” he said with a smile.

They cast off, and in the gap that followed, Elizabeth’s gaze travelled down the line. Darcy followed it.

Robert was dancing with Jane Bennet.

There was no other word for what Robert was doing but performing. He was not merely executing the figures; he was interpreting them. Every turn was a flourish, every bow an event. He had somehow contrived to make the simple business of handing a lady down the set seem like the final act of a very good play. And Miss Bennet, the always composed, placid Miss Bennet, whom in two months of acquaintance Darcy had never seen do anything more violent than lower her eyelashes, was laughing so hard she had missed a step.

Darcy stared. Robert caught his eye across the room, winked, and collided with Sir William Lucas. He offered the bewildered knight a dazzling grin and swept Miss Bennet into the next figure.

“He is very good at that,” Miss Elizabeth observed, when they came together again.

“He has had a great deal of practice.”

The moment he said it, he felt her hand stiffen in his.

“Mr Darcy,” she began, her voice dropping. “I promised Jane I would not do this. I promised her not four hours ago. So, I shall ask you only once, you may tell me to mind my business, and I shall. I do not want details of his past. I want to know one thing.” She gazed up at him steadily. “Is he a good man? Will he hurt my sister?”

They moved further down the line, following the steps.

“I do not know whether he will hurt her,” Darcy answered eventually. “No man can promise that of another, and I will not lie to you, Miss Elizabeth, even to comfort you. But I can tell you what he is.” He turned her, and lowered his voice so that it reached her and no one else. “Robert has a heart of gold. He is frivolous but not careless, even at the lowest moments of his life. He makes a great show of being a scoundrel, and he has done things a scoundrel would do, but he has never once done them to anyone who did not welcome them. I cannot speak ill of him. He is my brother in everything that matters, the same as Richard. If you want a bad word about Robert Fitzwilliam, you must go to his mother. She has a list.”

Elizabeth said nothing for a full turn of the figure. Then, when they came together, she pressed his hand.

“I trust your judgement,” she said.

They were four words, and they went through him like a sword.

The music ended, and the couples bowed. Darcy’s eyes landed on Dawson, who was moving unhurriedly.

“Sir.” Dawson arrived at his side, and Darcy glanced at the valet’s boots, which carried half of Middlesex. Dawson bowed to Miss Elizabeth, and then, with a smooth movement, he passed a small parcel from his gloved hand into his master’s.

“Thank you, Dawson.”

“Sir.” Dawson’s face did not move. “Roads were adequate. Chipping Barnet was not. I shall be in the kitchens, sir, if I am wanted, and I should prefer not to be wanted.”

He bowed and withdrew. Darcy closed his hand around the parcel and discovered that Miss Elizabeth was staring at him with the most acute, most undisguised, most ‘Elizabeth’ curiosity he had ever seen on a human face.

“What was that?”

“That was Dawson.”

“I know it was Dawson. I have met him, and I know he is a dignified man who does not smuggle contraband during balls. What is in the parcel?”